


I Arise From Dreams of Thee

by ClydeThistles



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Body Image, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, Masturbation, Mirror Sex (sort of), Taking Measurements, Voyeurism, Whipping Therapy, Yennaia, smut with feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:54:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25223464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClydeThistles/pseuds/ClydeThistles
Summary: Elaborates on the mirror scene from 'Betrayer Moon' episode. Will then go on to explore several instances when Yennefer and Tissaia woke up or fell asleep thinking of each other. Title taken from Shelley's eponymous poem.
Relationships: Tissaia de Vries/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 25
Kudos: 129





	1. Chapter One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer is still a student but she is an adult so nothing underage here. Also, while I have tried to be sensitive when imagining Yennefer's thoughts about her pre-Enchantment body I can claim no experience of this. If I have been unfeeling or stereotypical, please accept my apologies.

Yennefer watches her reflection in Giltine’s mirror, the pearly grey gown edged with silver thread clutched in front of her. Despite his artful tweaking of the fabric and his reassurances, she cannot see how it is going to be possible to make her beautiful. Or rather, she knows how it is possible, but she struggles to imagine what the result will be. He brushes some hair off her shoulder with his precise touch and says something encouraging. Just as Yennefer catches a glimpse of what he sees, the click of Tissaia’s heeled boots reach her ears. Yennefer recedes further into her shoulders, the tentative, hopeful shimmer in the mirror disappearing in the wake of the rectoress’ tread. Giltine flourishes his hands, further adjusting the skirt of the gown and waiting for Tissaia’s verdict. She tilts her head indicating he should leave, a look of understanding passing between them. As he steps out, he quirks his eyebrows roguishly, the corners of his mouth turning upwards almost imperceptibly. Yennefer decides they must be old friends, not many people have the nerve to smile at Tissaia and even fewer escape intact when they do.

In the mirror, Yennefer sees Tissaia eye her up and down, appraising her with an unexpectedly gentle gaze. Her eyebrows twitching like they do when she turns something over in her mind, contemplating it. The rectoress approaches. Unhurried measured steps echoing closer making the hairs on the back of Yennefer’s neck stand on end in nervous anticipation. When Tissaia finally reaches her, standing close enough that Yennefer can feel the heat emanating from her skin, she speaks. Her voice low and melodious, its customary cold edge softened,

“There is not a person alive who does not look into the mirror and see some deformity. Except for us.”

Her words whisper across Yennefer’s hunched left shoulder and whenever the rectoress inhales, her chest rises, silky fabric and the swell of her breasts brushing against Yennefer’s bare arm. And she has just said ‘us’ again. Yennefer is uncertain why but every time Tissaia joins the two of them in a shared experience with that tiny word, it makes her throat ache with emotion.

“We remake ourselves on our terms. The world has no say in it.” She moves her gaze from Yennefer beside her to Yennefer in the mirror, locking eyes with the reflection, “Look, you can free the victim in the mirror forever.”

Yennefer lowers her eyes, plucking disheartened at the gown, “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Close your eyes.” Tissaia instructs, crossing behind Yennefer. Only a fool shuts their eyes when Tissaia de Vries is prowling at their back and Yennefer is no fool. Tissaia clasps her hands at her waist, waiting purposefully at Yennefer’s right elbow, daring her to disobey a second time, “I said _close_ them.”

Yennefer does as she’s told, her other senses heightening immediately. The warmth of Tissaia next to her, the little puffs of air as she breathes, the clean scent of her skin and the bergamot of her hair oil, the gentle crackling of the flames round them. She’s so close Yennefer can taste the bittersweet tobacco that lingers on Tissaia’s lips and fingers, the rectoress must have lit her pipe recently. And now, there is a muted hum, almost inaudible, that Yennefer realises is the air between them charging with Chaos. Tissaia must know her mind is busy processing all these sensations because she waits a moment before she speaks again. When she does, her voice makes Yennefer’s scalp tingle, it feels like she’s right against the shell of her ear, her words caressing,

“Imagine the most powerful woman in the world. Her hair, the colour of her eyes, yes.”

At first Yennefer can only picture Tissaia whom she suspects _is_ the most powerful woman in the world, not that she ever flaunts it. Eager to please her mentor though, Yennefer concentrates harder and an image begins to form.

“But also, the strength of her posture.” Yennefer feels her spine and shoulders straighten of their own accord (in as much as they are ever straight of course). “The poise of her entire being.”

Poise. Yennefer has never felt poised in her life. Powerful, yes. Once or twice since discovering her magic she has felt powerful. Graceful, balanced strength though? That is unfamiliar to her. She begins to panic, unable to finish the picture in her mind. But then, she concentrates on how it feels to have Tissaia’s attention on her, how it had felt when the woman smiled approvingly at her after the eel incident.

“Do you see her?”

Yennefer is slow to respond, waiting until she is certain and then whispers, “Yes.”

She feels Tissaia lay her hand on the side of her head, her fingers sliding through her hair to graze her scalp, her wrist against her ear where Yennefer thinks she can hear her heartbeat. Tissaia eases into her thoughts politely, only going deep enough to find the image, no further. Yennefer feels her tilt forward slightly, reaching towards the mirror, the movement pressing her breasts against Yennefer’s shoulder, her belly against her ribs. Sees through her eyelids the glow in the room flare brighter with the expended magic. Hears Tissaia’s tiny exhalation as she smiles in appreciation of what she sees.

“Open your eyes.”

Yennefer does so, dread and excitement making her stomach churn. It is not what she was expecting. It is herself in the mirror, still with a crooked jaw, her left shoulder higher than the right. But she looks taller somehow, a subtle undercurrent of power palpable in her. Her head is held high, her eyes clear and bright, her face composed, her hands steady. _This_ is what poise looks like. Tissaia has made her powerful without changing a single thing about her body. Has shown Yennefer that all she requires is already inside her. It will be for other people’s benefit that her body is altered to conform to their notion of beauty. She is already beautiful, here, now, with Tissaia next to her and a newfound self-assuredness in her soul. The corner of Tissaia’s mouth twitches, aware of what she has achieved and pleased with the result,

“She is stunning.”

As they study themselves in the mirror, Giltine reappears, smiling knowingly at Tissaia, appraising the change in Yennefer with satisfaction. He crosses to his lectern and drapes a measuring tape round his neck before taking the gown from Yennefer. With a click of his fingers it returns to its mannequin of its own accord, rustling amenably as it arranges itself in the correct fashion. Yennefer cannot help a grin and she decides she likes Giltine. Tissaia on the other hand purses her lips at such a waste of energy but the Artist only winks at her. ‘They _definitely_ have history’ Yennefer thinks to herself.

He flourishes the measuring tape and prepares to size Yennefer up but Tissaia takes it from him, urging him back to the lectern with a hand on his shoulder and a look that brooks no argument. He nods and instead picks up a sheet of parchment and his black feather quill, ready to notate. Before Yennefer has quite grasped the situation, Tissaia is running the tape purposefully through her fingers, looking expectantly at her student. She instructs,

“Remove your shift. To the waist will suffice.”

Yennefer swallows hard, her recent confidence beginning to waver. She knows Giltine will do this with all the students, nothing kept from his gaze. But she doubts Tissaia has observed any of the others and it makes Yennefer’s belly burn wondering why she is watching now. Reaching up to unfasten the laces at her back, the young mage decides she is going to handle this with grace and dignity. This is the start of the new her and the new Yennefer will not be made to feel ashamed or discomfited by anyone. Even by bloody Tissaia de Vries.

She cannot quite reach to undo enough of the laces, normally she just pulls the garment up over head, but she is determined to keep her lower half covered. Rather than struggle and fumble she turns to Tissaia,

“Will you unlace me?”

Something shifts in Tissaia’s eyes and her jaw jumps. Yennefer feels smug and turns back to the mirror, waiting for the rectoress to come to her. Tissaia draws the laces through the eyelets slowly, deliberately. Her fingertips flicking down Yennefer’s spine as she moves further and further towards the small of her back. When Tissaia is satisfied there is enough give in the garment she lifts her hands but does not step away. Instead, she watches over Yennefer’s shoulder, lips parting slightly as the younger woman reaches up and pulls the fabric from her torso, letting it pool at her hips. Watching Tissaia watch her is doing something to Yennefer’s abdomen but she harnesses it and stands proud, her nipples peaking in the cool air. Her hair is spread over her back and Tissaia gathers it up, lays it over her right shoulder, the tendrils brushing across the top of Yennefer’s bare breast making her shiver. Her back and hunch are now fully exposed, and Yennefer fights the urge to curl into a ball. Then Tissaia holds one end of her tape at the nape of Yennefer’s neck with a thumb, glides the length of it down her spine and all Yennefer can think is how terrifyingly wonderful it feels. The waxed fabric of the tape is cool and smooth, Tissaia’s fingers warm and sure, her voice low and breathy as she gives Giltine some numbers. She spans the tape across her shoulders, curving round their hunch with careful touches, runs its length down each arm to her scarred wrists. Pauses at her hunch once more and strokes it lightly, indicating a point of interest to Giltine who nods in agreement and sketches something. This scrutiny of her deformities should make Yennefer uncomfortable but something about the careful attention and detailed cataloguing is reassuring. These two people; the Artist and the most powerful woman in the world, are going to fix what others have broken.

Tissaia instructs,

“Lift your arms for me. Just a little.”

Yennefer complies, still observing her reflection in the mirror, studying Tissaia as she works on her. She bends, slides her arms round Yennefer and circumnavigates her waist, her belly, tugs her shift down a little to access her hips and encircles them. Tissaia’s breath ghosts over Yennefer’s skin, her lips close enough to press against her ticklish ribs if she should choose to. She does not but the tantalising possibility makes Yennefer start to throb between her legs. Tissaia straightens up and cinches round Yennefer’s back, where her breast band would normally sit. Yennefer knows what is coming next, but it still makes her quiver involuntarily when Tissaia’s tape wraps round her bosom, the edge of it just catching her nipples. The tape is not constrictive, but it is snug, and Yennefer can feel her breasts straining against it as her breath quickens. And then, she is released, her lungs expanding gratefully as the tape flicks away. Tissaia comes to stand in front of her. She anchors one end at Yennefer’s hips and cascades it down to her ankles. Yennefer looks down and, merciful gods, Tissaia de Vries is kneeling in front of her, her mouth inches away from Yennefer’s centre. Something about the rectoress being on her knees is making Yennefer unsteady as though she is a little drunk. The mirror means Yennefer can see both Tissaia’s front and back. Her bright eyes and serious mouth, the unusually low neckline of this black gown allowing a hint of cleavage to appear as she leans forward. And her feet in their lace-up boots tucked neatly under her bottom, the slope of her back as she tilts towards Yennefer’s knees to better read the numbers on her tape. Her long, graceful neck deliciously bare without a high collar, the dark knot of her hair curled against the pale skin. Yennefer drinks it all in greedily, afraid to blink in case she misses something.

Her measuring finished, Tissaia stands and orbits Yennefer slowly, eyeing her thoughtfully. Arm’s length from her, not touching but not straying far, like a moon pulled in by gravity. Her heeled boots click, her skirts rustle, the pendant round her neck glinting in the firelight, her piercing eyes roving over Yennefer. She comes to a halt, reaches out and grips her chin in thumb and forefinger, turning Yennefer so she can study her profile. Runs an index finger round her crooked jaw, casting another glance at Giltine who again nods and sketches. As an afterthought, she strokes her palm up Yennefer’s face to brush her fringe out of her eyes, studying the result and nodding.

“No fringe.” She instructs the Artist, “Let us see those magnificent eyes properly.”

Tissaia flicks her eyes down the length of her student’s body. The gentle intimacy of the past half-hour has made the younger woman so at ease in her own skin that she enjoys her scrutiny, confident the rectoress is pleased with what she sees. Her sharp collarbones and firm breasts, smaller than Tissaia’s but still full and proud, mocha nipples standing to attention. The curve of her ribs arcing up to her sternum, the delicate flesh in the dip between them and her slim hips, the shadowy vertical lines hinting at her abs either side of her belly button. The tiniest brush of dark curls just peeking out from where her shift is bunched round her navel. Tissaia lifts her gaze to lock with Yennefer’s,

“Soon the world will see what I have always known to be true. You are beautiful, my dear.”

Yennefer must clench her fists to stop from pulling Tissaia into her arms and kissing her. She wants nothing more than to feel the black satin of her gown pressed against her bare chest. There is a tempest of emotions in Tissaia’s eyes, fighting towards the surface. Affection, fear, shame, desire, pain, wistfulness – all swirling round and Yennefer thinks she may drown in her gaze.

But then, the rectoress blinks and steps away, crossing to Giltine and observing his sketches. She lays her hand on his arm, he brushes her shoulder with his. Yennefer feels jealousy spike hot and bitter in her stomach – Tissaia’s fingers belong on _her_ , no one else. They seem oblivious to her and Yennefer sulks as she pulls her shift back up over her torso. Clicks her tongue impatiently and tosses her hair,

“Are you finished with me?”

Tissaia only waves her hand, indicating she may leave, not sparing her so much as a glance. Yennefer turns on her heel, storming out. Had she known how Tissaia’s eyes burned watching her retreating figure, she may have been in a better mood and thus able to sleep. Instead, she throws herself onto her bed in frustration and stares at the ceiling until the bell tower strikes two after midnight. She sighs and lays back, intending to touch herself but suddenly remembers she is the new Yennefer. Poised and powerful, a sorceress, a mistress of magic and a woman rather than a girl. And, to hell with it, this Yennefer is going to take what she wants rather than make do with second best. And so, her bare feet padding on the stone and her hand against the wall to help find her way in the dark, Yennefer walks the corridors of Aretuza to the Rectoress’ study. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I couldn't resist putting in some implied history between Tissaia and Giltine after watching MyAnna and Julian in BBC's 'Banished' which was filmed a few years before 'Witcher'. Head-canon they are now just friends but they do have fond memories of their time together. He's sort of her wingman I guess!


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yennefer sneaks into Tissaia's bedchamber. All I'm saying is she gets a surprise...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Yennefer is a student but an adult. Unapologetic smut: guilty as charged! Possibly now an Explicit rating? There's feelings though so it's not just porn...

Moved by an urge she cannot hope to control Yennefer climbs the staircase knowing Tissaia’s study is at the top of them. As she reaches the landing, she is struck with the awful thought that Giltine may be in the rectoress’ bed and this makes her pause. She hovers between the top step and the door with a sickening roiling in her stomach that could be anxiety, anticipation or arousal but is probably a cocktail of all three. The dull, insistent ache between her legs wins the battle for command of her brain and directs her feet to cross the flagstones separating her from Tissaia’s door. Half-expecting a wailing siren or some awful booby-trap to pounce on her, she eases the handle down and tests the lock. It swings open noiselessly, not a single charm or bolt to bar her entrance. Yennefer finds it hard to believe that Tissaia does not have stringent security protocols in place and is hesitant crossing the threshold. Then the thrilling idea hits her that perhaps the door has been left open on purpose tonight. She rubs her hands together with glee and grins sheepishly at herself. Chastises under her breath,

“Gods, Yennefer! Poised – remember?”

But she still lets her eyes dart mischievously about the study as she tiptoes in. It is dark except for the moonlight streaming in through the open curtains on the arched window behind the desk. She knows Tissaia’s bedchamber is through another door on the left. It is tempting to go straight through, but she doubts she’ll ever get another chance to explore the study, so she makes herself look around. Partly out of curiosity but also because of the delicious anticipation that is building by forcing herself to wait. And there is something wonderfully intimate in looking through the woman’s desk, in sitting in her chair and feeling the indentations her body has made in the padded leather. She traces her fingers over some correspondence on the blotter, looping round Tissaia’s elegant handwriting. Uncorks one of the filigree bottles nearby and sniffs. It is bergamot and oh, it is as though the very essence of Tissaia has filled her lungs. She spies the rosewood and ivory pipe and picks it up carefully, her life will not be worth living if she breaks this. Hardly able to believe her nerve, Yennefer places the bit between her teeth. The titillation of having her lips where Tissaia’s have been is ruined by the sting of tobacco hitting her lungs and she splutters, trying to muffle a cough. There is a creak from beyond the door and what sounds like a moan. Yennefer freezes, going lightheaded from the lack of oxygen but clamping her hand over her mouth to stop coughing. Nothing happens and she slowly releases her breath, her muscles, her heartbeat, from the iron grip she had been holding them in. This fright should have brought her to her senses, made her beat a hasty retreat and count herself lucky. But it has only made her wetter, the ache between her legs now an erratic throbbing. Setting the pipe back where she found it, she stands and walks slowly to the bedchamber door. She pauses outside it, pressing her palm against the wood. There is no going back from this. If she opens this door, she will never be the same again. And then she realises, she does not want to be the same. She wants to be the woman in the mirror. And she wants Tissaia to be the one who makes her that woman.

The door opens with the slightest of pushes and closes with only a quiet click as Yennefer shuts it behind her. The curtains here are drawn and Yennefer’s eyes take a moment to adjust. The fabric is gauzy though, so the moonlight does filter in, mellow and pearly. Tissaia is fast asleep, lying on her side with her back to Yennefer, sheets pulled up to her chin and her hair fanning out behind her. There is no one else in the bed and Yennefer smiles. It is a four-poster bed (obviously, what else would the woman sleep in but a bloody fourposter?) with teal brocade curtains tied neatly back. The night is warm, and the furs have been thrown back, only white sheets covering the small form carefully aligned to the left of the mattress. Yennefer bites back a chuckle, of course Tissaia sleeps on her side of the bed even when she’s alone. Sighing quietly, Yennefer leans back against the wall and cups her own breast gently squeezing. Her arousal twitches just from this light stimulation and she exhales through her mouth, trying to slow herself down. She wants this to last. Pulling at her shift, still loose from earlier, she uncovers her torso, letting the fabric sit at her hips again. The air hits her skin making it pebble and her nipples tighten. She angles her body so moonlight brushes her, wanting to see herself as well as Tissaia in the bed. Normally she lies on her front, her face buried in a pillow and her eyes shut when she touches herself. She likes to distance herself from her own body. But not tonight.

She circles her nipples, licking her fingertips so they slip over the buds, imagining it is Tissaia’s tongue on her. Pinches them and tugs, Tissaia’s teeth. Cups them and pulls, Tissaia’s lips sucking. Her heart is pounding so loudly Yennefer worries it will give her away. Tissaia sighs and shifts, rolling onto her back, the sheet riding down to reveal she is bare underneath it. Yennefer swallows a moan at the sight. The rectoress’ breasts are full and heavy, released from their corsets and buttoned-up gowns to flop comfortably on her ribcage, languorous and relaxed in their freedom. Pert rosy nipples and pale skin, white and pink like peaches and cream. Her belly has a curve to it. Nothing podgy or excessive, but a gentle swell rather than being flat. Yennefer likes it, it looks like it would be good to rest her cheek against. The moonlight catches a hint of pale downy hair dusted round Tissaia’s belly button and down to her navel where the bunched sheet sits tantalisingly precarious. Yennefer runs her hand down her own abdomen and imagines it is Tissaia under her fingers, playing join-the-dots with the birth marks scattered across her pale skin. Curving her palm round her hips, skimming up to her breasts again, fluttering into the notch above her collarbones. Then trailing a wet index finger from her lips, over her dimpled chin, down the valley of her breasts, round her belly button. Yennefer dips her hand past the waistband of her shift, pretending it is the sheet round Tissaia’s hips that she is reaching under. Finds her damp curls and velvety folds and her head falls back against the wall, her hips arching into her touch. Resisting the urge to bring herself release hard and fast, she strokes up and down her folds, circling her nub and rubbing side-to-side. Her breath becomes thicker as she works her hand between her legs, and it is becoming almost impossible to stay quiet. Tissaia’s head twists so Yennefer can see her face, her lips parted slightly and her hair falling over her cheek. Her eyebrows twitch and she gives a little whimper which makes Yennefer’s stomach jolt. The younger woman is becoming desperate and she slides a finger inside, biting on the knuckles of her other hand to keep from panting. She rakes her eyes over Tissaia’s sleeping body and feels the heat building in her abdomen.

She is close, so close.

And then several things happen at once.

Yennefer moans involuntarily as her middle finger joins her index, Tissaia wakes and sits up, lanterns round the room flare and a portrait near Yennefer’s head clatters to the ground, smoke curling up from the canvass. Whatever spell Tissaia aims at suspected intruders, it is redirected at the expensive painting in the nick of time as the lanterns illuminate the young mage. To Yennefer’s horror, she is too far gone to stop and all she can do is helplessly buck her hips, tight-lipped to muffle her cry as Tissaia’s eyes meeting hers tips her over the edge. She shudders with the aftershocks, shame burning her cheeks. Pinned to the wall by Tissaia’s intense stare, unable to even begin guessing the older woman’s thoughts. Yennefer wants to run out the door, wants the ground to swallow her, wants to be struck by lightning. Anything to break this moment but she cannot move. Tissaia has said nothing, done nothing. Only sits there staring at Yennefer, waiting. Waiting for what? Yennefer panics but the tiny part of her brain still functioning gives her a sharp kick - _poise, Yennefer!_

Suddenly, she understands. She lifts her chin, plants her feet firmly despite the hand still wedged between her thighs. Leans back against the wall, relaxing but not slouching. Flicks her fringe out of her eyes and then holds out her other hand to Tissaia, violet irises flashing a challenge. She manages to keep the tremor from her outstretched hand, just. Tissaia rewards Yennefer with a sensual, almost predatory, look through her eyelashes. She stands, the sheet falling from her and every part of her finally visible. Despite being stark naked and woken rudely by a student masturbating in her chambers, Tissaia crosses the space between them in her customary measured tread, with the same steely elegance as would grace any Kingdom’s court or Chapter session. Yennefer cannot help admiring it, even if it is rather intimidating when it she who is being approached in this manner. Tissaia stops just out of arm’s reach and hovers her hand over Yennefer’s outstretched one. She waits until Yennefer nods consent and then grips her wrist with a sweet ferocity. Steps forward and pushes her arm out towards the doorframe, making Yennefer’s fingers curl round it. She releases her and nods in approval when Yennefer keeps her hand in place, gripping the doorframe as instructed. Then, she kneels and tugs the shift from Yennefer’s hips down to her ankles, pulling it aside when Yennefer lifts her feet. Any normal person would have thrown it in a heap given the situation but Tissaia stands and shakes the creases from it. Folds it carefully and drapes it over a chairback. Yennefer would be annoyed if she wasn’t too busy feeling gratified that Tissaia hands linger over the fabric, savouring the heat trapped there. That she presses it to her nose, inhaling and sighing in enjoyment, before she folds it. The woman has somehow just made tidying sexy. Tissaia steps towards her again and slides her fingers down Yennefer’s arm to the hand that is still between her legs. Again, she waits a moment, allowing Yennefer the chance to refuse. Satisfied this is what the younger woman wants, Tissaia lifts her hand still covered in excitement and sucks each finger clean. Hums when Yennefer pushes them in further, tongue flicking over the knuckles. Then, pulling them from her mouth, slick and shiny, she guides Yennefer down to cup her thick curls and warm mound. Her eyes shut and she bites her lower lip, encouraging Yennefer’s ministrations with her own hand on top. She instructs in a breathless voice,

“Inside me.”

Yennefer complies, feeling the slippery muscles twitch at her touch, curling her fingertips, beckoning. Yennefer tries to use her other hand to stroke Tissaia’s shoulder but the rectoress stops her, forcing her hand back to its doorframe. The same happens when Yennefer leans in to kiss her but is held back by a hand at her throat. Tissaia leans her forehead against Yennefer’s and whispers huskily,

“Not tonight, piglet. No touching. Not yet.”

Yennefer is about to argue that she is most definitely already touching Tissaia, her fingers are inside her for the gods’ sake! But something raw in Tissaia’s voice makes Yennefer decide it is not her prerogative to demand more, not tonight anyway. So, she concentrates on her work between her legs, letting the rectoress set the pace with her own hand on top. Tissaia rewards her by sliding a thigh in between hers, tensing her quads to increase the friction. Yennefer would not have thought it possible after her earlier orgasm, but she feels her desire smouldering and grinds against Tissaia’s thigh gratefully. Tissaia starts to pant, one hand still lightly encircling Yennefer’s throat and the other urging her between her legs. She shifts this hand to a bruising grip on Yennefer’s hip, submitting to Yennefer’s choice of speed and patterns rather than guiding her. Her forehead still strains against Yennefer’s and her eyebrows have drawn together in concentration, her blue eyes flicking between their violet counterparts and the hand between her legs. Yennefer feels Tissaia’s walls start to quiver and intensifies her thrusting, stroking up to reach further inside. She brushes a rough patch making Tissaia give a sharp cry, so she repeats the action once, twice, the third time makes Tissaia stiffen then come apart, wetness trickling down Yennefer’s wrist. The rectoress buries her last cry in Yennefer’s shoulder, biting down hard on the soft tissue. Yennefer has finished in sympathy, her thighs tensing round Tissaia’s in a gentle, rolling climax so different to the desperation of her last one but somehow just as satisfying. She removes her hand from between Tissaia’s legs and drapes it lightly over her shoulder, unsure if this is allowed but Tissaia seems too dazed to reprimand her.

Breathless and spent, they stay still for a long moment, the enormity of what they have done slowly dawning on them. Yennefer’s mind starts to race with all manner of worries and questions and –

_Hush, piglet. You think too loud._

Tissaia’s thoughts interrupt her and Yennefer remembers being taught that mental barriers significantly weaken during sexual encounters. She reaches out, nudging Tissaia’s mind and when she is not immediately evicted, she eases in. She only goes far enough to establish a link and then lets her mind flood with beautiful things; snowy mountains, the smell of cut grass, the first crisp apples of autumn, silky fabric warm from the sun. Tissaia smiles a little and removes Yennefer’s hand from her shoulder, pressing her lips to the back of it briefly. She then straightens up and steps away, retrieving a robe and wrapping it round herself. Tidies her hair and washes her hands in a bowl that sits on a nightstand. She turns and seems surprised that Yennefer has not moved,

“Back to bed, piglet.”

Yennefer pushes off from the wall and pulls her shift back over her head. Crosses to the door, opens it and has almost left when she turns round, poised and assertive,

“You will call me by my name, Rectoress.”

The corner of Tissaia’s mouth twitches upward, her eyebrows arching in approval,

“You may go… Yennefer.”

Yennefer leaves and shuts the door behind her. Waits until she is out of earshot before releasing a giddy chuckle and burying her face in her hands. The walk back to her room feels much shorter than her journey earlier tonight. She falls onto her bed and hugs herself, unsure what the emotion bubbling through her is but knowing she likes the feeling. A self-satisfied grin on her face, she lets her eyes drift shut and is at last able to sleep.


	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set immediately after Yennefer's appearance at the ball. Explores the repercussions of her procedure. Hurt/Comfort. Warning: details injuries and body modification.

Tissaia has a leather case of pure-distilled oils that she keeps by her bedside. The bergamot is her everyday scent, the rosemary she adds to baths to unwind, the sandalwood comes out when winter is at its coldest and the jasmine is for when she’s expecting a lover in her bed. Not that the delicate floral has had much use in recent years. Tonight, it is the lavender she reaches for, rubbing it into her temples and down the back of her neck. This, combined with a cool cloth across her forehead and a darkened room, is the only remedy for the headaches she gets. They have plagued her all her life and she has learnt to stave them off with magic and meditation. Occasionally though, a particularly vengeful one strikes, and she has no choice but to submit and suffer in silence. Tonight’s headache is entirely due to Yennefer’s brazen stupidity. Well, if Tissaia is honest with herself, the champagne Vanielle cajoled her into drinking has probably exacerbated it…but she is laying the blame for her misery squarely at Yennefer’s feet. And at Giltine’s. The fool! She is going to rip his head off as soon as her own stops pounding. To have Enchanted Yennefer even though she had been barred from Ascending, and to have subjected her to the procedure without the herbs and then to have let her waltz into the ballroom with Virfuril in her sights – ugh, it was enough to give anyone an aneurism never mind a headache! And as if all of this is not already a disaster, Tissaia had been an utter imbecile two nights ago and slept with Yennefer. No, she had not slept with her, she had _fucked_ her. Up against a wall, her hand round the girl’s throat and giving her commands, shameful words pouring from her mouth along with the most obscene noises. The memory makes Tissaia’s skull squeeze the soft tissue of her brain malevolently and she groans.

Sitting up makes her want to retch but she needs to undress and unpin her hair if she is to have any chance of relaxing. The red dress with silvery leaves on the shoulders is easier to remove than some of her more buttoned-up gowns and has no corset which is a blessing. Her hair is another matter, the complicated arrangement full of twists and pins. When at last, she is released from the trappings of her position she wraps a worn cotton robe round herself and loosely plaits her hair into a long braid down her back. Now all she needs to do is reach the washstand to dampen a cloth and fall into bed with it plastered to her brow. She lies back, flicks her hand to extinguish the lanterns and sinks into the pillow, an arrhythmic tic assaulting her left eyelid. Lying very still, the pain eases slightly and she concentrates on regulating her breathing, willing the headache away. Just as she begins to believe she may yet live, someone tries to contact her telepathically. Tissaia squeezes her eyes shut, praying to every deity she can think of, none of whom she has ever believed in. Her prayers go unanswered and the signal prods at her thoughts with an insistency to match the pounding already inside her skull.

_Who is it and what the hell do you want?_

_Have you touched yourself picturing me in my new body yet?_

Yennefer’s tone is resentful rather than teasing and Tissaia’s heart does a horrid flip-flop.

_Yennefer?_

A bitter laugh.

_Is there more than one person who might be asking you that question? Who else have you been having shenanigans with?_

Tissaia sighs. She had suspected this conversation would be happening soon. She knows Yennefer felt betrayed being assigned to Nilfgaard. And knows she hadn’t quite kept the shame from her face when confronted by her student the morning after their…encounter. Which Yennefer had misinterpreted as regret and distaste rather than Tissaia’s insecurity over the way her body has been reacting to the new, assertive Yennefer. She forces her response to be cold, unruffled.

_I have never had a **shenanigan** in my life. Now, get out of my head._

Yennefer goes quiet but does not break the link between their minds and Tissaia is about to bring her barriers up when she realises something does not feel right.

_Yennefer? Yennefer answer me._

Nothing. She can still feel the younger woman’s mind, but Yennefer is not present. Tissaia swears and sits up, clutching her temples. The only explanation is that Yennefer has lost consciousness and Tissaia is suddenly worried. And a little guilty that she hadn’t checked on her earlier. Enchantment is enough of an ordeal when asleep but awake… Tissaia shudders at the thought. The adrenaline mercifully clears her headache and she tries to not feel grateful that Yennefer has collapsed. Retrieving her healer’s pouch and a shawl to maintain some semblance of modesty she makes her way barefoot, unpinned and unbuttoned towards Yennefer’s room. Tissaia has not been outside her private chambers in such a state of undress since the fire of 1154 and she moves furtively through the corridors knowing she will never live it down if anyone sees her like this.

Yennefer stifles a sob as she wakes and the pain flares. Her empty abdomen. Her straightened back. Her symmetrical shoulders. Her chafed wrists and ankles. Everything hurts. She’d managed to maintain a façade of disdainful elegance for the duration of the Ball. Riding high on her new seductiveness and the hot, spiteful resentment towards Tissaia, the Brotherhood, Istredd, all those bastards… When Virfuril had laid his hand on her abdomen she’d winced but had passed it off as nervous arousal which had only ensnared him deeper in her charms. Now though, she is feverish and wretchedly sorry for herself. As her mind claws back to consciousness she dimly hears the door open, feels the mattress dip as someone sits beside her.

“Yennefer? Can you hear me? Yennefer, open your eyes!”

She drags an eyelid open and sees someone who might be Tissaia but looks far too dishevelled to be her. Yennefer hisses at the woman,

“Sod off.”

“Get this dress off.”

“Why? So you can fuck me again? You only needed my hand last time - I think I can keep my dress on. In fact, we don’t even have to look at each other. Here, just do what you need to do and then leave me in peace.”

Yennefer holds her hand out with the fingers splayed in an obscene gesture. Through her half-closed eyelids she sees Tissaia go white and prepares to be incinerated in her bed. But all the rectoress does is press her fingers to Yennefer’s outstretched wrist and take her pulse, laying her other hand across her forehead.

“You’re burning up. I need to get your temperature down. Take your dress off.”

The woman busies herself with some herbs and bottles working quickly but methodically. Partly because she is too sore to move and partly because she knows the frivolous use of magic will annoy Tissaia, Yennefer waves her hand and charms her dress into thin air. Tissaia rolls her onto her back, covers her with a thin sheet, studiously avoiding her naked body and Yennefer smirks unpleasantly. Her smirk turns to a grimace as a foul-tasting potion is poured down her throat before she can protest, Tissaia cradling her head carefully. A damp cloth filled with fragrant herbs is folded on her forehead, another draped across her sternum. Whatever the rectoress is doing is working and Yennefer feels her mind clear a little, the pain fading to a sharp stabbing rather than ripping her apart. When Tissaia presses her hands to her abdomen and begins to chant, Yennefer plucks at her wrists, writhing.

“Stop fighting me, Yennefer!”

“Get your hands off me! I don’t need you, you cow!”

“You’re making this harder than it needs to be, just let me help you, you stubborn girl!”

Whatever insult Yennefer was going to hurl in response is forgotten as she starts to sob in relief, the agony inside of her has abated. Tissaia wipes the back of her hand across her own brow, trembling with the effort of healing. She lays down next to Yennefer, the sheet and her robe between their skin making it justifiable in her mind. Tucks Yennefer’s head under her chin and strokes her hair, lightly draping her other arm across her torso. Yennefer cries, great big tears and shaky sobs, even though there is nothing so pathetic as a sorceress crying. Tissaia makes soothing noises, even hums a little tune she had forgotten she knows.

When Yennefer has calmed, Tissaia sits up again and returns to the dresser where she had been mixing potions and tinctures. She turns to Yennefer, a little bowl in her hand filled with a purplish paste,

“Can you sit up, do you think?”

Yennefer tries and succeeds albeit moving gingerly. Tissaia hitches up her robe and climbs gracefully onto the mattress, settling herself behind the younger mage. She adjusts the sheet round Yennefer so her back is exposed but with some folds carefully arranged to hide her bottom, her breasts and nether regions covered in the tent made by her knees drawn up to chest. Anything inappropriate thus out of sight and out of mind, Tissaia starts to run her fingers through Yennefer’s hair. Yennefer’s scalp shivers, her artfully cascading curls mussed but she does not care. Not when it feels so wonderful to have Tissaia’s fingers on her again. The younger woman doesn’t see where she picks it from or whether she’s conjured it but Tissaia suddenly has a brush in her hand. Soft-bristled with a mother-of-pearl handle. She combs through Yennefer’s hair. Top to bottom, gently teasing out knots and kinks, long smooth strokes grazing the skin of her scalp, the sound of the bristles and shifting strands oddly comforting. No one has ever brushed her hair and Yennefer resolves this will now be pre-requisite foreplay for any potential lover. She may even take it as a form of payment for charms and potions. But then she decides that actually, no one other than Tissaia is ever going to do this. This is going to be something only they share. Tissaia gathers the silky black curls into a tail and brushes upwards from the nape of Yennefer’s neck. Twists them loosely up out of the way and then starts to rub the sweet-smelling paste into Yennefer’s back and shoulders. The herbs and incantations within sooth the ache in her bones, Tissaia’s warm, strong hands easing the tension from her muscles. The rectoress runs her fingers down the angry line where Yennefer’s skin had split from her spine stretching, a frown on her face. Spans her palms across her shoulder blades, feeling the bones creak a little from being refashioned. Works her thumbs up the column of her neck, the individual vertebrae joined like a string of pearls. Massages into the raw chafing at her wrists where the leather cuffs had bound her. Feels the residual heat from Giltine’s paint still pulsating, cooled by the salve as it is absorbed, worked into Yennefer’s flesh by Tissaia’s hands.

“That smells nice.” Yennefer mumbles, already drowsy from the attention lavished on her.

“You’re half asleep. Here, clean your face.”

Tissaia fetches her a damp cloth from the washstand, washing her own hands as Yennefer removes her makeup. She misses a smudge and Tissaia takes the cloth from her, wiping it away. Before her mind realises what her body is doing, the rectoress leans down and presses a kiss to Yennefer’s lips. Gentle and brief, broken before it deepens into something they will not be able to stop. Tissaia sighs and links their thoughts,

_Yennefer, I-_

_Don’t. Don’t say anything._

_There are things that need to be said._

_Not tonight. Please._

Tissaia nods and helps Yennefer lie back, adjusting the pillows on the narrow bed that has been hers for over ten years. It is strange to think she will not be here, that Tissaia will not see her limping through the corridors anymore. That everyone else’s brown, green, blue eyes will begin to seem ordinary once more now that there is no electric violet around to make them seem poor imitations. The rectoress asks,

_Should I stay?_

_When have you ever let me tell you what to do?_

_I could say the same about you, my dear._

Yennefer holds out her hand and Tissaia takes it, laying down behind her, wrapping her arm round her, their fingers still intertwined. They fall asleep pressed tightly together.

When Tissaia wakes her mind is full of Yennefer but her arms are empty. It is barely dawn, the sky only just turning dove-grey streaked with amethyst and rose. Yennefer has left and seems to have taken nothing of Aretuza with her to Aedirn. Her clothes, her books, a pretty stone from that Ban Ard boy. Everything is still here. As Tissaia sits up though, she notices the hairbrush is gone. And so are the pouches of herbs she’d used to make the paste for Yennefer’s back, the one she liked the smell of. Tissaia sighs. The Skellige gooseberries will be relatively easy to procure but the lilac is shipped from Ofir and will be expensive to replenish. The rectoress allows herself an exasperated smile, rubbing her hand down her face. She should never have kissed Yennefer, never have left her door open that night, never gone to the mirror, never smiled at her after the eels, never have held her wrists and joined the two of them with the word ‘us’ in Tor Lara. But, if she is honest with herself, she was lost long before that. Refusing to analyse her reasons for doing so, Tissaia strips the pillowcases that still smell of Yennefer and takes them with her as she tiptoes out the door. Sneaking barefoot through the corridors of Aretuza back to her own bedchamber like a giddy schoolgirl. Because she has remembered what it feels like to lose control and, to her surprise, she is not afraid.


	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After their conversation in Rinde, Tissaia decides she must do something to rescue Yennefer from herself.  
> Warning: Contains conscensual infliction of pain in a non-sexual setting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonder Woman led me to Marston's DISC theory and the notion of a loving authority. And the chapter morphed into this.

As Tissaia steps closer to Yennefer and places her hands on her shoulders, she tries not to flinch. The Chaos and rage radiating off the younger woman is tangible. They are once again in front of a mirror together. Tissaia tries to reason, to warn, to cajole, to ask nicely, she knows it is useless. Yennefer is disillusioned and angry, so far gone that she couldn’t accept an olive branch even if she wanted to. When Yennefer stands and looks down at her, Tissaia aches at the disdain in her violet eyes. Her own blue ones follow Yennefer as she takes a choker from the armoire.

“How did we get this way? I gave you all I could give. What more do you want?”

“Everything.”

Yennefer stalks past her and sits in front of the mirror once more, pulling her hair up into a disarrayed ponytail. Tissaia is suddenly back on that narrow bed, brushing through Yennefer’s dark curls, marvelling at the soft silkiness of them. She wants nothing more than to tear off her leather gloves and plunge her hands into the thick black hair, grip hard and pull Yennefer’s head back so she can kiss that garish lipstick and horrible bitter curl from her mouth. Kiss her until her lips soften into a smile.

“You may go, Rectoress.”

The sting of Tissaia’s own words thrown back at her makes her clench her hands, still encased in their gloves, the leather scrunching as her knuckles tighten. Afraid of what she may succumb to if she stays a moment longer, Tissaia portals away, swallowing her grief. As she steps into her bedchamber in Aretuza she considers throwing something at the wall but makes herself take several deep breaths. An emotional outburst from her is not going to help Yennefer. So, she squares her shoulders and thinks hard. Trying to divine, as she has done so often before, what will bring her girl back from the edge this time.

* * * *

Yennefer is already bored with the evening. The orgy spread out round her is doing nothing for her. Life has become so dry and tasteless that not even her arousal, the most primal part of any person, is able to stir. The white-hot hatred and dark, sticky resentment in her chest cavity are the only things she feels now. That and the hollow ache in her abdomen. It was not meant to come to this, this was not what she had dreamt of lying in her Aretuza bed. She wants a child because she needs someone to love, someone to give her purpose, someone who knows nothing of her past and who will see her only as she is. This desire had started as a small seed but has blossomed and spread its branches until it is all she can think of, everything she works towards. She observes a man with his head buried between a woman’s thighs with disinterest and is considering ending the evening early when she hears the whirl of a portal. Tissaia steps out into the room and, to her credit, does not look the least bit shocked. The rectoress crosses to Yennefer on the low padded bench with that infuriating crisp walk, not ruffled in the slightest despite the fact several pair of hands are grasping at her skirts, hungry with lust for the alluring newcomer.

“You’re not wearing a mask, Rectoress. Everyone wears a mask. It’s the rules and you do love keeping the rules don’t you?”

“Release these people.”

“Why? They’re enjoying themselves.”

“I do not want an audience for this conversation.”

“Why? What are we going to discuss?”

Tissaia steps closer, “I am going to teach you a lesson.”

Yennefer glares at her and they battle for the upper hand, until at last Yennefer calls out, keeping her eyes locked on Tissaia’s.

“Ragamuffin.”

The hubbub of people coming to their senses and fumbling for their clothes does not distract either sorceress from their ongoing staring match. When the room is empty and quiet, Tissaia reaches round and undoes the ribbon on Yennefer’s lacy domino mask. Pulls it away from her face and places it neatly on the bench.

Yennefer smirks, “Not this again. I hadn’t realised it was time for your mid-century orgasm, is it really fifty years since you put me up against that wall?”

Yennefer tries to stand so she can tower over Tissaia but finds she is unable to move. She was so busy being sarcastic she has allowed herself to be paralysed by Tissaia’s silent incantation. Yennefer fights it and most mages would not have the power to hold her but Tissaia does. The rectoress places a bag Yennefer had not noticed until now on the bench and starts to pull out various items. A long coil of rope, soft but strong. Several smaller strips of leather. A deep wooden bowl and clean linen cloths. Yennefer’s eyes bulge and she forgets to struggle against the spell holding her. Tissaia kneels in front of her and unbuckles her heeled sandals, lifting them off Yennefer’s feet. As she works, she speaks,

“I am going to bind you and whip you until you let go of the rage that is consuming you. I will not insult, humiliate, or degrade you but I will bring you to your breaking point. You will have the choice of whether this will involve sexual gratification or not.”

Yennefer is rarely speechless, but words fail her now. Tissaia takes the leather strips and starts to weave them into a flogger, her fingers precise and dexterous, fashioning a handle and strands with little knots along them.

“You will notice I have left you ungagged. This is so you may tell me now if you have any concerns or requests. No matter how much you want me to, I will not stop hitting you. If you scream, beg, fight – still I will continue. However, if you _need_ me to stop you will say the word ‘hellebore’. Do you understand?”

Yennefer is too taken aback at the unexpected turn of events to do anything but nod.

“Repeat the word for me.”

“Hellebore.”

“Good. I will ask your permission now and if you say no, I will accept your answer. But if you say yes, you are in my power until I release you. Is that clear?”

Yennefer nods again. Tissaia grips her chin between her thumb and forefinger,

“Do you consent?”

Everything in her is screaming against this, against submitting. But Yennefer is tired. Tired of being strong. Tired of being angry. And Tissaia has never been wrong when it comes to knowing what she needs. And so, Yennefer replies,

“Yes.”

If Tissaia is surprised she does not show it, only stands, and brushes off her skirts. With a word in Elder she releases Yennefer from the paralysis and instructs,

“Remove your dress. Then kneel here.”

She arranges some cushions under the chain that once held a chandelier. Yennefer wriggles out of the tight gown and immediately feels freer. Tissaia conjures some water in the bowl and sets the cloths to soak, lays some more logs on the fire to warm the room, picks up the coil of rope and waits patiently at the cushions. Yennefer crosses to her and, taking a deep breath, she kneels.

“Hold out your hands, palms together, wrists touching.”

The older woman ties her wrists together, an elegant but complicated knot that allows her to wriggle them slightly but not slip free. She arranges it so the long tail of the rope is between Yennefer’s palms giving her something to hold onto should she need it. Tissaia loops the rope through the hook on the chain and pulls until Yennefer’s arms are raised above her head, taut but with enough give to allow her to lean and let the rope take her weight if her knees tire. Satisfied it is the correct length, Tissaia ties it off neatly and crosses behind Yennefer, removing the band that has been holding Yennefer’s hair in its ponytail. When she starts to brush it, Yennefer stiffens and trembles.

“You may cry, Yennefer. You may make whatever noise you need to.”

She allows herself a few hot tears but does not make a sound. Her stubbornness will not be overcome that easily. Tissaia finishes brushing and twists her hair up out of the way. Then, she walks to the bench and retrieves the flogger. Yennefer is facing the door so can only rely on her ears but the click of Tissaia’s boots means she can tell where the rectoress is in the room. Tissaia trails the whip over her lightly, caressing making Yennefer’s skin shiver. She flicks it, a little sting but nothing overly painful. Flicks it again. Then brings it down with a smack. Yennefer jumps and hisses. Tries to wriggle away.

“You will stay, Yennefer. You will not run. Not this time.”

 _Smack, smack._ Yennefer grips the rope but stays upright, reaching inside to a place of stillness and relaxing into the pain. Feeling the blood rush to her skin, the dopamine beginning to flow. The lash curls over her shoulder, splays across her back, twists round her ribs to kiss her breasts. She twitches a little at the harder blows but otherwise remains in place, her muscles flexing to maintain her posture, her poise. Tissaia notices the change and murmurs,

“Good girl.” _Flick, flick, caress._

“Your lesson is to understand the benefits” _smack_ “of embracing control as an ally.” _Smack, smack._ “Of submitting to authority.” _Flick, flick, smack._ “A loving authority.” _Caress, caress, flick._

“Submission can bring pleasure” _smack_ “power” _SMACK_ “and release” _SMACK, SMACK._

Yennefer has not yet made any noise louder than a gasp so Tissaia swaps arms, takes a full swing back and brings the flogger down in an arc, _thrash!_ Yennefer cries out, jerking at the rope. Tissaia repeats the move, Yennefer’s cry becoming longer, harsher. A flush has crept along her back and shoulders so Tissaia changes her angle and aims the leather at her buttocks and thighs. _Smack, smack, thrash! Caress, caress, SMACK_.

Tissaia’s arms are tingling and she is a little out of breath. It is tempting, so tempting, to thrash Yennefer senseless after all the literal chaos she has caused Tissaia. But this is not about punishment. Nor about Tissaia’s needs. Because although Yennefer is the one who has submitted, it is Tissaia who is the one to serve. So, choosing to focus on her affection and care and (she might as well admit it) love for Yennefer, Tissaia’s strikes are controlled, purposeful. She is careful to only graze the skin on what used to be her hunched shoulder, on the scar of her straightened spine. These spots do not need any more pain inflicted on them. The rest of her though, Tissaia hits with determination. She is going to break Yennefer from her prison of regret and self-doubt if it is the last thing she does. She spies a bead of sweat dripping down her flank and aims for it, eliciting a grunt from Yennefer whose head droops forward. Tissaia is about to ask if she is alright when a ragged whisper comes from the younger woman,

“More.”

Tissaia waits to be certain she has heard correctly.

“More, Tissaia.”

Yennefer feels as though she in a trance, concentrating only on the pain and the rhythms of Tissaia’s whipping. For the first time in decades, her mind quietens, no questions or worries or memories. Only an empty stillness and the knowledge that she is safe in Tissaia’s hands. The rage and regret and betrayal that have haunted her all her life are leeched from her. Forced to the surface and released, the stroke and sting of leather pulling them from her. And she feels powerful. She should not; she is on her knees, helpless and suffering. But there is a strength building inside her with every blow she withstands, every time she thinks she is going to shatter but instead comes through it to the other side. It is making her feel unbreakable. She wonders if this is how it feels to be Tissaia, secure in the knowledge that Control will not hurt you and powerful knowing you are Balanced, no temptation able to break you. Balance and Control, between the flower and the stone, the pain and the pleasure. As Tissaia’s hits increase in speed and fervour Yennefer starts to shake, squeezing her eyes shut and deep cries wrenching from inside her. When the tears come it is as though they are washing her clean, purifying her. She sobs,

“Stop, no more. I can’t, I can’t!”

“You _can_ , you will.”

 _Smack, smack, SMACK, SMACK, Thrash!_ The final blow makes Yennefer scream, her eyes flying open, her torso propelling forward straining at the rope, her knees buckling. She hears the swish of Tissaia swinging back and cries out,

“Hellebore!”

Tissaia lowers the flogger immediately, dropping it to the floor and coming round to face Yennefer. Despite her exertions, the rectoress still looks utterly composed, only the slight rise and fall of her chest betraying her breathlessness. She reaches up and slackens the rope from the chain, catching Yennefer and leaning her against her thighs as she tips forward. A quick tug and the rope round her wrists is undone. Tissaia removes her gloves and tests the temperature of Yennefer’s skin where she had been bound, rubbing to encourage the circulation. Gently rotates her shoulders and bends her elbows to loosen them after being strained. As Yennefer rests against her thigh, Tissaia lets her hand stroke down the sweaty nape of her neck, caressing until Yennefer comes back to herself. Tissaia then takes the cloths that have been cooling, bathes away the sweat and little flecks of blood where the flogger bit deep. With a fresh cloth she washes Yennefer’s face, gently brushing her damp hair from her forehead. Satisfied that all is as it should be, she strokes Yennefer’s hair, her cheek still pressed to her thigh,

“Are you well, Yennefer?”

The younger woman nods.

“Is there anything more I may do for you?”

Yennefer looks up at her, her eyes clear and bright, anything dark gone from them. Released in the catharsis of her suffering. She asks the question that has plagued her since the day she met Tissaia,

“May I touch you?”

“Are you certain? You should rest.”

“ _Please_. I need you.”

Tissaia struggles internally for a moment but decides her own lesson tonight is to _release_ control. To accept feelings rather than overcome them.

“Then I am yours. I always have been.”

She steps away and removes her gown, her stockings, and boots. Unclasps her corset and lifts her chemise over her head. Unpins her hair and lets it fall loose, fanning over her shoulders. Then kneels to bring herself eye-to-eye with Yennefer, frames her face and kisses her.

Yennefer moans. She has seen Tissaia naked, has been inside her, has fallen asleep beside her. But she has never kissed her, never had permission to cup her sharp jaw, to weave her fingers into her soft hair. Yennefer lays Tissaia back on the cushions, kissing down her body, hungry for what is finally hers. She straddles the rectoress and cups her breasts, thumbs pulling down on her nipples making Tissaia arch her back. She reaches to hold Yennefer, but the younger woman pins her wrists above her head, places a finger on her lips,

“Shhh. Let me do this for you. Don’t try to control it.”

Tissaia exhales, closing her eyes briefly then opening them to nod. Yennefer smiles and lowers her head to curl her tongue round Tissaia’s nipple. As her mouth works, she reaches a hand down between them to lift Tissaia’s thigh up round her hip, teasing down the inside of it with feather-light strokes. When her fingers finally reach her centre, Tissaia moans and arches again, giving a frustrated whimper as Yennefer lifts her hand away.

_Stop dictating. Trust that I know what you need._

Tissaia glares at her but lowers her hips, waiting for Yennefer’s touch rather than demanding it. Yennefer strokes up and down, Tissaia’s folds hot and wet and impossibly soft. Circling round her pearl with firm patterns, easing the pressure whenever Tissaia starts to climb, bringing her to the edge and then pulling her back, walking a tightrope. When Tissaia is breathless with need and clenching her fists above her head so hard her knuckles have gone white, Yennefer slides a finger into her clinging heat, gasping at the way Tissaia’s walls clench round her. With a little pressure and twist of her wrist she gets three fingers in and starts to thrust. Her thumb still rubbing at her nub, her fingers twisting and curling, her mouth nipping at Tissaia’s breasts and collarbones and her other hand cradling her head, pulling lightly on her hair. Yennefer is everywhere and Tissaia’s skin feels alive quite apart from her, as though it is its own sentient being, so many sensations running across it that she fears it may split open and release her to float away. Chaos rushes through her as she approaches her end and, true to her word, she does not try to control it. The fire flares, the water in the bowl sloshes and a loose flagstone rattles as the ground trembles. Her head snaps back and her mouth opens in a silent scream, her hands flying down to grip Yennefer’s hair, desperate to hold her in this moment of release.

Yennefer does not have time to feel smug as she is pulled up and rolled onto her back. She hisses as her bruised skin takes her weight but forgets the pain because suddenly Tissaia’s head is between her thighs, her dark hair fanning across Yennefer’s hips and her harsh, clever mouth working at her centre. Her tongue flattens and licks up Yennefer’s folds, flicking lightly at her nub, swirling through the damp heat and soft curls. Yennefer keens low in her throat and looks down her body, she can see Tissaia’s blue eyes and arching eyebrows watching her, her dark hair mussed and bobbing up and down with the movement of her mouth. As her lips close round her pearl and suck, Yennefer thrusts a hand into Tissaia’s hair, pulling her closer, writhing and panting. It is over quickly, Yennefer’s emotions and body already raw from everything that has happened this evening. Tissaia reaches a hand up and lays her palm across Yennefer’s heart and it is this that breaks her, this that sets her free and brings her to a shuddering peak, her belly clenching so hard she sits up before falling back against the cushions. She cries a little, Tissaia stroking the tears from the corners of her eyes and cradling her in her arms. As they drift off together, Yennefer knows two things. She is beautiful; whole and intact, perfectly formed. And this, this moment, is what she had dreamt of as a lonely, frightened girl in a narrow bed who tiptoed down corridors in search of something more.

* * * *

_I arise from dreams of thee in the first sweet sleep of night_

_When the winds are blowing low, and the stars are shining bright_

_I arise from dreams of thee and a spirit in my feet,_

_Has led me – who knows how? – to thy chamber-window, sweet! - PB Shelley_


End file.
